


The Universal Meaning of Things Past

by Issay



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Winter Soldier, Pre!Serum Steve, Smut, five senses, headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 09:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3645876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Bucky could kiss dozens of girls but only this taste would mean home.</em><br/>It would mean Steve.<br/>James opens his eyes and rubs his forehead, having a strange feeling that a particularly strong migraine is coming. Sometimes he thinks it's a small price to pay for those memories of a one-bedroom flat in Brooklyn, scrawny young man at his side and warm, content feeling in his belly. Memories of home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_How much of one's personality is created by memories? One could argue that most of it, that personality takes shape in a process that is life so when a part of it is taken away, the product of said process changes completely. But as the studies on patients with dementia or long-term amnesia, one's memories are not necessarily a factor in this..._

James closes the paper he was reading with a sigh and stands up. It wasn't telling him anything he wouldn't know already from other sources and the shelf of the library he had chosen for his research didn't offer anything else he hadn't read before. It had been a waste of time.  
After Washington – after everything that has happened, the fall of Hydra, Steve breaking Winter Soldier's programming, those strange weeks of memories flooding his brain and then disappearing again – it was so confusing. Again and again he searched for answers to most basic of questions.  
Who is he?  
He knows what he called himself before – read it in the Smithsonian and then remembered, slowly, day after day something more. Before the war he was Bucky. Yes, Bucky was Steve's friend, Bucky lived in Brooklyn and worked in the shipyard, he was a charmer and ladies man. Bucky was a liar. He wasn't Steve's friend, he was something, someone else entirely. But it was a secret, something only two people in the whole world knew. Two men out of time. How ironic. Bucky wasn't the ladies man they thought him to be, he needed them to believe that mirage so he smiled and charmed and kissed girls in dark alleyways. But Bucky was a liar. Still carrying a scent of flower perfumes and young sweat he went home and kissed a man with the same lipstick stained lips. 

Bucky was a liar. Bucky was happy.

Then there was a terrible war and he didn't live in Brooklyn anymore, he wasn't Bucky. He was Barnes. Then sergeant Barnes, number three two five five seven. He crawled through the mud and laughed like it was fun, he shot his rifle and made it look easy. He was a man in the uniform. He was a member of Howling Commandos. Captain America's best friend. It was a long time ago.

Not Bucky. Not Barnes. Who, then?

Winter Soldier, they called him. The Weapon. Hydra's unforgiving fist. A tool. Yasha, called him a woman whose name he couldn't recall, no, not a woman, a young girl who said that it would be impractical to call him Soldier, too confusing, there was a lot of soldiers after all. None like him but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered back then.  
He isn’t Bucky. He isn’t Barnes. Since Washington he isn't the Winter Soldier. 

Now he is James. The name suits him and it is a good answer if anyone asks – no one ever asks and even if, they don't care for the truth. A name is something practical. He can understand that.

Now: who is James?


	2. Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road to redemption starts with taste and the storm of memories that it brings.

1

He wakes up one morning – it's still early, sun low on the eastern sky – with a bitter taste on the tip of his tongue. It's herbal and makes his mouth tingle. But it's only a shadow of the taste, he knows it's a memory.  
_It's cold winter, normal New York winter and even though they have some wood for burning it's still too bloody cold in their small apartment in Brooklyn. Steve put some rags on the windowsill to prevent the harsh wind from entering their shared space but it didn't help too much. And it was damp, too, the ever falling snow made sure of that._  
_“You know, I actually like Brooklyn in the winter,” says Steve over his drawing, voice raspy and eyes shining with burning fever. Bucky scooped closer until they were pressed from shoulder to knee, sitting on Steve's bed in a nest of blankets. He can feel the heat, sign of illness, radiating from his friend's body. “It's prettier this way.”_  
 _“Don't know about prettier, sure as hell colder,” he sighs and props his chin on Steve's bony shoulder. “Is that what you're drawing? Snow?”_  
 _Before Steve can answer, another fit of cough shakes his body and Bucky embraces him with one arm, pressing him close and making sure he doesn't choke. Lungs again, then. Bucky prays in silence for it not to be pneumonia – after it almost killed Steve last winter, he's way too delicate to go through it again. When the attack is over, Bucky reaches for one of the blankets and carefully wraps it around Steve's shoulders._  
 _“I'll get your syrup from the kitchen, wait a sec,” he murmurs and slips from the bed with a hiss. The floor is cold but he knows it won't do anything to him – he was always the healthy one, the stronger one. It was Steve who needed to be cared for, protected and coddled. Bucky likes the coddling part. A lot._  
 _Not bothering with shoes he pads to the kitchen and easily finds the bottle made from thick, brown glass. A doctor he once met in a bar recommended it for “someone of weak health, for coughing” - and it helped. Tastes like shit though but hey, it is a medicine!_  
 _“Here you are,” Bucky came back to the bedroom – their only room – and handed the bottle and a spoon to Steve._  
 _“Well then, cheers, I guess,” Steve smiles weakly and downs a spoonful of the syrup. He grimaces with distaste. “Awful as always.”_  
 _“If it helps...” Bucky corks the bottle and places it on the desk. Then he joins Steve on the bed. “Want me to make it better?”_  
 _“What can you do to make it better, hmm?”_  
 _Bucky laughs quietly and bends down to softly nip on Steve's lips. That gets him a gasp and a pair of hands clutching his arms. Slowly he licks into Steve's mouth, tasting the bitter medicine, honeyed tea and something else, something he always associated only with Steve Rogers. Bucky could kiss dozens of girls but only this taste would mean home._  
 _It would mean Steve._

James opens his eyes and rubs his forehead, having a strange feeling that a particularly strong migraine is coming. Sometimes he thinks it's a small price to pay for those memories of a one-bedroom flat in Brooklyn, scrawny young man at his side and warm, content feeling in his belly. Memories of home.

2

In the summer James prefers to sleep in the Central Park because in the heat that envelops whole New York the walls of his apartment seem to be closing around him, wanting to suffocate him. So he takes a thin quilt to spread out on the ground or a bench and sleeps under the stars. It's not a restful sleep, no, because he wakes up now and again because of someone coming his way or Iron Man flying high above, but it's still a better rest than he gets in Brooklyn these days. Local homeless and snack cart owners eventually start to recognize him as July turns to August. Just like his coworkers at the shipyard – the job he had found, they seem to believe he's a veteran soldier suffering from PTSD – it's not an unusual story, he's met a lot of vet over the past few months. It saddens him. Either way, he's not too surprised when a young mother with a little, maybe six year old girl, asks the coffee seller near the cart about him.  
"One of them war vets, ma’am," answers the man, Gary. "Summer's tough on 'em lot."  
Slightly wary, James starts to gather what little he brought with him (quilt, bottle of water, granola bar wrapper he didn't throw away) in order to leave, he has to go or else he'll be late for his shift. The woman and her daughter slowly walk up to him and when they stop just as he gets up from the bench, the mother offers him a bar of Hershey's chocolate.  
"Please, take it," she says and smiles at him. "Thank you for your service. And have a nice day."  
James returns the smile and winks to the little girl. Child laughs and they leave. Chocolate! He doesn't remember the last time he had it.

 _Barnes is surprised to see Hershey's in his army ration when he gets it, still in the training camp. He had no idea the fucking military gave you chocolate on the daily basis but come to think about it, it's not a bad deal. Not at all. He makes a mental note to write Steve about this, he'll be... No, actually, better to shut up about it because Steve already wants to go to war too badly, no need to push him into this delusion even further. So no writing about chocolate. He'll write about the insane training and the ever yelling drill sergeant. About itchy fatigues, beds harder even than the ones in their Brooklyn flat and lack of sleep. And maybe about how deeply he hates it all, how much he would like to go back to New York and just let Europeans win the war themselves._  
_He needs to be careful about this. He knows. But Steve is his only friend and he has so many thoughts, so much to tell him and yet he can't because Steve wants to go and fight and get his stupid skinny ass killed. Barnes can't let him do that because he needs something to come back to. Someone to miss while freezing in some foxhole, someone to write him letters from home. It's all so messed up._  
 _With a sigh he opens the packet and takes a bite of the sweet treat, already melting on his tongue as he savors the moment. Barnes never has been big on chocolate and rarely could eat some – but even if it's too sweet, he doesn't mind because at least the taste is so familiar in the world that seems so foreign to him. Something to hold on to when they make him run six miles before breakfast or when he's crawling through the mud alongside dozens of other men. Briefly he wonders if he's the only one seeking comfort in things as simple as chocolate – and maybe if it's by design, maybe it's in that ration packet to lift the spirits and make soldiers think of home, of why they fight._

He smiles.  
James sighs and finishes Hershey's, candy wrapper soon joining the one from the granola bar in the bin. As far as flashbacks go, this one wasn't that bad. With a small smile he goes to work, taste of chocolate heavy on his tongue and head filled with memories.

3

During the first long months of his existence as James he doesn't make any friends. Surely, he has acquaintances, people he met in the homeless center, his neighbors or people he usually passes by on the street – but none of them are his friends. At least until he makes another brave decision: to, at least once a week, eat out. Regaining his memories is one thing but what's the use if he doesn't have anyone to talk to?  
So he finds a little place in the heart of Brooklyn that has been there for years – forty three, he's informed by the sign over the entrance – that serves the Eastern European cuisine.  
And he makes his first real friend since DC.  
Aleksandra is a little old lady who owns the place and rules it with iron fist – James is not surprised, these days he remembers that his own grandmother was just like that. She's Polish, as far as he can tell but she doesn't offer her life story and he never asks.  
„You've been hurt,” she says with heavy, characteristic accent. „You'll talk when you want to.”  
He will. One day, he will because she'll most probably be able to understand him.  
So he goes there every couple of days and tries some new dish he hadn't had – or doesn't remember. Like pierogi, little dumplings filled with mashed potatoes and farmer cheese.  
Oh. He had them before.

 _It was Warsaw in the fifties, the city still remembering the wartime destruction and in the middle of rebuilding or rather building anew. Poland is one of the places Hydra has interests – like pretty much everywhere, but here, in this phoenix city they have Eastern Europe Headquarters. Which means that a mole within the organization is being chased without any mercy._  
_Not that it's of any interest for the Soldier._  
 _He already knows his mission: find and kill the man called Włodzimierz Rostowiecki, a low level operative, ex-Polish military, who sold Hydra's intelligence to the government. He's on the run and hiding somewhere in the bowels of the monstrous city that still smells of death and bombs._  
 _The Soldier almost got him when he was trying to evacuate his wife and small child – but the man got away, knowing the way through piles of rubble better than Hydra's favorite tool. Wife screamed but Soldier paid no mind, she wasn't the mission._  
 _After some time without any success, Soldier's body felt tired and clumsy, it wouldn't do – the operation, chasing a man on his own territory, required more strength. So the Soldier does what his inner voice told him to – he finds a bar, nothing much, just a few tables and chairs, and orders whatever is on the menu._  
 _He gets something the woman bringing him food calls „pierogi”. Their taste is lost on him because the Soldier doesn't care about things like taste. He cares about utility and the dumplings are a suitable sustenance._  
 _He eats in silence, pays and leaves to resume the hunt._

„I ate them before I killed a man,” says James over the plate full of steaming food. He doesn't want to meet Aleksandra's eyes, too afraid what he might find in them. He knows that what the Soldier did was not he fault but there is a difference between knowing something and not feeling guilty about it. „It was a very long time ago.”  
Feeling the touch of dry, small hand on his startles him.  
„If it was a long time ago, it doesn't count,” Aleksandra smiles at him. „Forgiven and forgotten, you know. It's a good rule to live by.”  
„I don't have anyone to ask for forgiveness,” he confesses. The old woman laughs though the sound lacks joy.  
„Stop worrying about the past, dear. It's all and gone now. But if it makes you feel better, I forgive you, my child. I forgive you.”  
Somehow, it does make him feel a little bit better.


	3. Smell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scents of this brave new world are sometimes simply too much - and at the same time never enough.

1

Homeless shelter he visits from time to time has an abundance of newspapers – some completely new, others a day or two old. They just were there, for anyone to read, not that most of the usual guests would bother to. Rachel, a kind girl working in the common room told James that it's a part of city's reeducation program the shelter benefits from.  
“They think that if they give a few bucks for the newspapers the problem of illiteracy and low level of education will go away,” she says with a sad, tired smile. James didn't know what to say to that but he makes a point of sitting down and reading the paper from time to time. He isn't sure, why. Just seems like the thing to do.

 _He knows by heart the scent of a low-grade paper used to print newspapers on and the ink, yes, the ink is quite easy to recognize. Chemical and sharp, not really unpleasant but what would he know, he's used to it by now. Ever since Steve got the job with the printing company he brings the scent home._  
_It lingers on his fingertips, slightly red, irritated by the chemical ingredients of ink he touched throughout the day. Same fingertips touch Bucky's skin and voila, now he carries the smell. It will disappear in a few seconds. Bucky doesn't mind._  
 _Then there are Steve's wrists, they smell like old books, dusty paper, from time to time like mold because from time to time he takes little side jobs for little magazines and draws for them on the worst paper possible, the kind someone just found in their cellar._  
 _Sometimes Bucky buries his face in Steve's hands, breathing the scent deep into his lungs and simply exists, engulfed in the warm fragrance of a day's work and the man he loves. Nimble fingers caress his skin and Steve never asks. Maybe he fears the questions. Maybe he knows that once again Bucky heard a whisper of a rumor and needs to go out, get himself a girl to show off and fondle in an alley (he never brings them home though, it's an unspoken agreement they have). So Steve lets him fill his nose with the scent of paper and ink, and then watches him go. He never waits up. Bucky never shares a bed with him after those evenings out._  
 _Sometimes it's completely different._  
 _Sometimes Bucky kisses the scent off until there is none left and Steve sighs softly and it's as perfect as the circumstances allow. With the taste of ink in mouth he explores other parts of Steve's body, points he knows will make him moan into the pillow is touched, kissed, licked or pressed the right way. Bucky knows how to make Steve scream without making a sound, how to make his eyes roll in pleasure as Bucky chuckles around his cock. And maybe it's just his imagination but the hands that land on his head, fingers that pull his hair and make him want to purr, still carry a scent of ink and paper._

James closes the newspaper he was reading – sport section was boring, political news informed him of another bunch of senators that were found out to be Hydra's prominent members and in the gossip there was a photo of Steve Rogers and Tony Stark, both in tuxedos, on some kind of charity benefit. Author of the article was subtly implying there was something more than professional friendship between Iron Man and Captain America.  
James snorts. If only they knew.  
His hand – the real one, not the prosthesis he was covering with long sleeves and leather gloves – stays on the paper for a little while. He can feel how the ink got damp underneath his palm.  
If he raises his hand to his nose and breathes deeply, no one sees it.

2

Sometimes James has worse days. Days when he's shaky and his limbs suffer slight tremors and when he comes back from the shipyard beaten and wanting to curl up under a blanket and sleep, just sleep. It's so complicated, living in this insane century and with eighty years worth of memories stuck in his head. Worse days mean missing the simplicity of being told what to do and James often finds himself trying to gather the memories from his army days. It's better than those from his missions as the Hydra asset, after all.  
It's one of those days when he cuts his hand – the one that can be cut, that is – stupid mistake, really, he's a master with knifes but on days like this he's not, not really, he's just James and James can cut himself. He was washing the dishes and reached blindly, the blade doesn't slice deeply but there's a lot of blood and James freezes, watching the red drip from him flesh onto the stainless steel of the sink. When he snaps out of it it's almost a pool of ruby red liquid and the scent, God, the scent of it is overwhelming. James knows it's only in his head, he's imagining it, but it seems to him like the sickly sweet smell of blood is everywhere in the apartment, making it impossible to escape it.  
The scent that brings back memories.

 _He's in Ardennes – of course he's in fucking Ardennes, there is no worse place to die than this frozen, unforgiving forest – curled up in a foxhole, alone and scared to death because it's the first shelling that big. It almost seems like the fireworks at Stark Expo or 4th of July, it would be beautiful if it wasn't that scary. It's loud and for a moment Barnes wonders if he's screaming and just can't hear it over the noise. It is a possibility, he decides. Trees explode all around him and fall over the foxholes and trenches they have been digging when the Jerries started firing mortars. So it's cold and loud and there's a three inch long piece of wood stuck in Barnes' arm. Doesn't hurt yet. Probably will start eventually but not yet._  
_The shelling goes on and on, after a while Barnes is almost used to the sound and thinks that he can hear other men calling, someone yelling for a medic, someone else praying loudly. Maybe it's just his brain that's been playing tricks with him, trying to make him less scared. Not that it's possible, though. He heard that some men get crazy after some time spend in the trenches, that after the previous war the hospitals were full of mentally ill soldiers who couldn't stand the noise. For Barnes, it's the loneliness that does it. It doesn't matter it's too dangerous, he has to see another man's face because now it seems that it's just him, that the world has ended and he's alone with that noise and bombs still falling on them. He looks over the edge of his hole._  
 _In the next hole he sees some scraps of cloth and red, nothing more, but then the smell hits him. Even in the shelling – Barnes had no idea the sound can be so loud it dulls all other senses – he can smell blood and powder._  
 _Slowly he hides again, trying not to remember who was in the foxhole next to his, the one that got a direct hit – and trying not to think that it could have been him, that heap of scraps and blood. The scent lingers in his nose, impossible to get rid of for days to come. But by then Barnes gets used to it and forgets. It's Ardennes. It's better to forget._

James blinks and bandages his hand, fingers trembling, he needs three tries before he manages to do it properly. After that he cleans the sink and spends the rest of the evening on his couch, curled under a blanket that smells like blood and chocolate, trying very hard not to think about anything at all.  
It doesn't work. That night he dreams about the man who died in the foxhole next to his and he has Steve's face.

James wakes up screaming.

3

Sometimes he just walks. Crosses miles of pavement, one face in the whole ocean of others, completely comfortable with his anonymity. Except he's anonymous, he knows that. From time to time he sees Steve in the crowd, sometimes it's the winged man from Triskelion or other Avengers, he knows their faces from the Internet. He took his time combing through SHIELD's massive database Natasha Romanov released in the wake of Hydra's awakening. He's grateful that there are no files on Winter Soldier or any of his missions.  
He probably has Stark's son to thank for that.  
Either way sometimes he has flashes of memories as he walks through the city he used to know (in the thirties, then a brief mission in the sixties and a cryogenic chamber in the nineties that was located in Queens). These days he's trying to get as many as he can handle just to get this over with. James is tired, he just wants to sleep through one night without waking up screaming.

He knows it's not going to happen anytime soon.

It's a beautiful, sunny day and the crowds on the streets are worse than usual – winter was long and a lot of people want to catch as much sun as they can. James is one of them so he's not really surprised.  
He passes by a pretty strawberry blonde who smiles at him and winks – he has no idea if it's the modern way of flirting but just to be safe, he smiles back. Weakly, but it's something. And then her scent hits him, some kind of floral fragrance that brings up memories.

 _The woman is screaming obscenities at him in both English and French. The Soldier doesn't care, he's unable to feel anything as her words get harsher and harsher. He only knows that he dislikes it when they yell, it's easier when the target is paralyzed with fear and just lets things happen. She screams so she still believes she has a chance of getting out of this alive – but the Soldier's mission is clear: eliminate the target._  
_Woman spats out something about his parentage._  
 _The Soldier stops for a fraction of a second as there appears a stray thought – does he have parents? No. He doesn't. He only has masters, he's their fist and anger. The thought soothes him, gives him a sense of purpose. Not that he needs one to function._  
 _She's pale now, her bright blue eyes wide and scared. She sees him pick through her scarves trying to decide which one will hold her weight. Eventually he finds one, green with some flowery pattern, it doesn't matter, it doesn't have to be pretty. The Soldier has no concept of elegance. He just does his job._  
 _As he ties the complicated noose, he can feel the scent carried by the material held in gloved hands. It's some kind of perfume, sweet and feminine._  
 _It doesn't matter._

“Sir? Are you all right?” asks the woman when he heavily sits on a bench. She's standing right next to him, sun playing in her strawberry blonde hair, making them look almost ginger.  
“Yes...yes, it's nothing,” James tries to smile reassuringly but his face refuses to cooperate so he's not really sure how it turns out. “It's just a memory.”


	4. Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's one of the most important senses that the human body posesses. For him, it's one of the most painful ones.

1

The winter is closer and closer, he can feel it in the wind that is getting harsher with every day that passes. One day he looks in the general direction of Avengers Tower, watches the lights in large windows and wonders if Steve is there. If he's warm and safe and cared for. It's just a though that passes as quickly as it came but it's a thought nonetheless.  
He needs to take care of himself now. From one of the charity baskets he gets a quilt – it's green, violet and blue, pretty thick and most definitely warm. It will serve him good in his small one-room flat he's renting using the money he took from one of Hydra's hideouts. The agents he found there didn't need it anymore after he was done with them. And he doesn't need much, at least until he figures out what next.  
James touches the blanket and remembers.

 _“Bucky, stop messing with that clock, you won't fix it in this crappy light. It can wait until morning. Come under the blankets.”_  
_Bucky looks up from the mechanism he was tinkering with and raises his brows._  
 _“What's the rush?”_  
 _Steve blushes – it's beet red and spreads from his face and neck downward, to places hidden by the thick dark blue blanket he's hiding under. Bucky smiles, amused._  
 _“Well, I'm naked. If you want to take your sweet time...”_  
 _Bucky finds himself next to the bed in a matter of seconds, even before Steve manages to finish the sentence. He strips out of his shirt, undershirt, pants, socks and shoes even faster. Steve laughs at him, still red, and nuzzles Bucky's underwear, cheek deliciously sliding over still clothed cock._  
 _“Oh God, you're trying to kill me...”_  
 _“Don't blaspheme,” mutters Steve and his hot breath on the most sensitive part of Bucky's body is almost too much. “And take those off.”_  
 _“Bossy,” sliding the underwear down, Bucky has a moment when he itches to take the initiative and fuck Steve into the mattress until he would have to bite a pillow in order to not make too much noise. But before he can do anything, Steve's lips are on his cock and nimble fingers press briefly behind him balls, causing him to curse wordlessly._  
 _When Bucky finally gets on the bed, two oil-slick fingers in Steve's ass and mouth on his cock, the blanket it warm and slightly scratchy underneath his knees._  
 _He doesn't mind._

James covers himself with the blanket and closes his eyes, hoping for the vision to stay, not to disappear like so many others. He relives every detail, every strangled moan and gasp, feeling of sweat on his skin and breath that is not his, and the quilt is warm and scratchy in his hands. Hand. This brings him back to the present.  
Only one of his hands is actually really his.  
For the first time in a very long time – longer than he remembers – James kneels on the floor and prays. “Don't blaspheme,” resounds in his head.  
He doesn't.

2

The paths in the park are muddy, it's been raining a lot and he's happy that it's finally stop. James usually runs in the morning, three miles at least, human-speed of course (he's seen Steve once from the distance, Captain America jogging without bothering to slow down and match other runners, James wonders how it would feel to race like that). He has his favorite places, ones that he's sure he'll never meet Steve on. He tries to avoid run-ins for now. He's not better yet, he's not good enough and as the time passes James wonders if he'll ever be. But he banishes the thought. It's important not to give up just yet. So he doesn't because he still has some hope that Steve will be his Northern Star again, showing him the way back home.  
Paths are muddy and James wonders if he has any memories connected to damp ground. He reaches down to touch it, tread his fingers through the sticky pulp and it feels strangely satisfying. But then everything flashed in front of his eyes.

 _The floor of his cell is muddy, Hydra doesn't really care about the comfort or hygiene of its prisoners – and Barnes is in too much pain to care about his pants getting dirty. The fatigues are already stained with so much dirt, blood and sweat, some mud won't hurt them. it's funny, the things you think about when you're in captivity, probably waiting for your turn to die. Barnes is sure he won't make it out alive. He's strangely okay with the thought. After all, he had a lot of time to think about death, even to pray for it when he was strapped to the medical table in some mad scientist's lab. Death seems to be comforting. An old friend. Barnes has seen so many people die in the last few weeks of the war... And he doesn't remember Steve's face. He chases the image in his head but it's impossible to catch._  
_Barnes sighs deeply and notices his hands are covered in mud. It's slightly warm, probably from his own skin, and the man tries to clean his fingers the bast as he can – not that he can do much. Everything hurts and he'll die here, alone and filthy._  
 _He hears the others. Most of the men were taken to different cells, cage-like ones that are too tiny for the amount of people stuck in them, while Barnes and a handful of others were taken to single ones. Soon they've learned that shared cells mean work and single ones mean pain. But they have no illusions, they will all die eventually. They have seen what Hydra does to the men they capture. There is no way out – sometimes he hears prayers, other times curses and valiant songs about how they'll still kick the asses of their captors. They don't give up, even when faced with the imminent failure._

James opens his eyes and tentatively cleans his hands. It feels like it's sticking to his skin, this bone-deep feeling of impending death and complete lack of hope. Steve saved him from that place, he remembers. But he also knows – for the first time in a very long time he's sure of something – that in that mud at the bottom of a very solitary cell died Bucky. Even after Ardennes there was a way back for him, a way to fix himself and once again be the man Steve knew before the war. Of course, if he had the chance. But then he was the prisoner of Hydra, the hollow-eyed man dancing on the very edge of death, and Bucky just wasn't there any more.  
It's a sad thought, for some reason, and James wants to cry for that boy he once was. Maybe it's the first step to feel connected to the past self, he thinks resuming his jog, mourning of oneself. The young man who loved with his whole heart even when it was strictly forbidden. An idealist who thought he could protect those he loved.  
James almost laughs out loud at the stupidity of the notion. But he mourns nevertheless – because no one ever really mourned Bucky Barnes. Steve didn't have time and other than Rogers, he never had anyone.

But now he has himself – and something finally is right inside of him. It's a start.

3

He knows he did bad things as the Soldier, maybe even as Barnes (never as Bucky, he will never apologize for what he did when he was Bucky because none of it was truly wrong). Some worse than the others. But he's still not prepared for what he sees in a flashback when he touches the new pillow he's just bought, it's stupid, really, to get a memory from something so mundane. But he does. And hates what he sees.

 _The pillow is blue and it's soft, the kind you can find in nurseries. The Soldier doesn't care about how it feels in his gloved hands – it's an object and it will be useful to him. The mission objective is simple enough, eliminate the target and every person present in his apartment. So he moves like a shadow from one room to the other, silently bringing death._  
_The target is a forty-three year old man with a wife five years younger and three kids._  
 _The Soldier doesn't care._  
 _His handler didn't say anything about the kind of death Hydra wishes for the target or his family so the Soldier picks the one that is clean and efficient enough. Simple enough. The faster the mission is done, the more useful he will be to his masters._  
 _The last child, a boy, is about two years old, the Soldier thinks impassively while covering the kid's calm, sleeping face with the pillow_.

James almost doesn't get to the bathroom in time.

“What if it's impossible to go back?” he asks, sitting on a bench in Central Park and refusing to look at Natasha who is just next to him. He knows they have a history. He knows that she doesn't care and in a way it's freeing. “What if… What if I'll never be okay enough?”  
“You will never forgive yourself.”  
“I know.”  
She looks at him, James can feel it. He doesn't want to know what is written on her face.  
“It's always easier when you're a tool,” says the man who usually shadows Black Widow, suddenly appearing next to the bench. James doesn't move a muscle. He knew where the man was this whole time. “But then you have all that free will and the pile of shit to deal with – and even though it wasn't your decision, you'll feel guilty for the rest of your fucking life. But you can live with it. You can do something to earn redemption. So stop wallowing, grow a pair and, I don't know, do something with your life. You've got another chance. Even if you don't deserve one.”  
With that, they leave him.


	5. Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say eyes are the windows of one's soul. James isn't sure if he likes the thought.

1

He finds this place by an accident, it's just a different route to his apartment – James tries to change it as many times as he can, an old habit from the previous life. He knows that even if Hydra sends agents after him, he'll manage. He's not afraid to take lives and live on the run, it's just he doesn't want to. He's comfortable in Brooklyn, even though there is an occasional invasion or some sort of villain decides it's a beautiful day to destroy New York. After some time you just get used to it – bees sting, snow is cold, Hulk is green, NYC gets attacked.

Anyway, it's an alleyway, dark and dirty as many of those in Brooklyn and the buildings that create it look old. Old enough for James to expect what's coming.

 _When Steve doesn't come back home at his usual hour, Bucky's concerned but not panicking yet. After all Steve is an adult, he can come and go as he pleases – maybe something stopped him at work or once again he lost the track of time while looking at art supplies they couldn't afford. Bucky may be his lover but he's most definitely not his his nanny. Right?_  
_As hours pass and the evening sky is getting darker, Bucky reaches for his coat and leaves their threadbare flat to circle the usual places, alleyways and parking lots. Just in case Steve got himself in some kind of trouble. Again. It wouldn't be an unusual circumstance in their lives, after all. So he goes into the night and checks all the usual places – and finds Steve in an alleyway, half-laying on the ground._  
 _“Holy shit, Steve, who did this?” He's next to Steve in a blink of an eye, the ground is cold and Bucky thinks that here we go with another bout of pneumonia._  
 _“Some guys...” Steve lets Bucky get him up and leans on him heavily. Slowly they start walking home – Bucky's no doctor but knows a bleeding, swollen nose when he sees one, and judging from hisses of pain, at least one rib is cracked. Steve will be black and blue tomorrow morning. “They decided to teach the queer a lesson.”_  
 _Bucky knows what he wants to say. But it's not the time and not the place – tomorrow his fists will have a talk with the group, he knows well who Steve's talking about. But he'll do it quietly and without telling anyone. Just in case. Just in case..._  
 _And for now Steve is the most important. In the privacy of their home he gently strips Steve and cleans the blood with wet rag and softly kisses every hurt place, laps at them with his tongue and soothes the abused skin. He lets his breath warm Steve up, rubs his fingers, slicked by ointment, careful not to make anything more painful than it already is._  
 _Bucky sees the hurt in Steve's eyes and grits his teeth, anger boiling just underneath his skin._

James breathes deeply and touches dusty bricks with the hand that is flesh, for a moment simply rubbing the wall at the exact same spot Steve's head was in his flashback. He closes his eyes, trying to hold on to the memory. James remembers what happened next: bruised knuckles and some nasty stuff he heard about himself but it didn't really matter back then. No one in the neighborhood would rat them out, he was sure of it.

Times were different. More importantly, people were different.

“I would have protected him to the very end,” he mutters to himself and opens his eyes again with a heavy sigh. He's tired. Bone-tired, to be hones, those memories are making him ache and almost miss the calm, mindless sleep of cryogenic chamber. And he knows that his flashbacks will show more and more. He's not happy about it, not at all. But he supposes it's better to know than to imagine. And maybe they will show him the answers.

2

"Bucky?"  
"It's James now," he answers calmly, not looking at the man sitting next to him on the bench. He feels warmth radiating from Steve's body. He remembers the time it was him who acted as a human blanket. It's schizophrenic sometimes, really, like living a couple of completely different lives.  
"Are you okay? Do you have a place to live, to you need anything? Do you want to come home with me, I can..."  
"Steve."  
"Yes?"  
"Not yet."  
Steve looks at him in silence but doesn't ask. Maybe, underneath the responsibility and glamor of being a superhero, leader of Avengers, America's darling, maybe under the muscles, he is still the same man Bucky kissed in a threadbare Brooklyn apartment in the thirties. James lets himself hope for it and the strength of this feeling almost takes his breath away.

They sit on a bench in a cemetery. James likes this place, it's an old cemetery and not many people come here, well, except for him – he's not surprised Stark's son found him here and let Steve know. If he wanted to avoid it, he would change his routine. Instead, he sat on the bench in the military part of the burial site and waited patiently, unsure what to expect but convinced it's the right step.  
The two men look at the neat rows of headstones for a moment in complete silence. The only sounds are the chirping of birds and far commotion of the city. It's peaceful and warm in the sun.  
"Many of those are from 1946," notices Steve after a moment, his voice seems hesitant like he's not sure if he's even allowed to speak. James nods shortly.  
"Suicides. Soldiers who came back and just...couldn't. I get that. Do you?"  
Steve nods.

 _It's a cold night somewhere in Polish woods, sky as starry as Barnes has ever seen it. Howling Commandos are camped out in a small clearing, fire forbidden because of the air crafts patrolling the black expanses over their heads so they piled up with their blankets to share body heat. Barnes ends up in Steve's discreet embrace which is actually a pretty sweet deal because apparently Captain America can serve as a hot water bottle when he's not saving the world. But their moods are low, no humor or laughing this time. They've seen whole villages burned to the ground, little children left unburied at the side of the road, heard rumors of encampments and mass graves and the ever present terror of Nazi Germany._  
_"How can we go on after this?" asks Dum Dum quietly, not addressing anyone. They are all thinking about it, though. "Just go home and pretend we haven't seen this?"_  
 _"Of course it will change us. It already has," answers Pinky. "The important this is that you have something to come back to."_  
 _In the darkness, Steve dares to squeeze Barnes' fingers. At least, here, in the middle of hell, they still have this. Like always. Forever._

James winces slightly when Steve's phone rings, an Avengers alert most probably, it was very quiet for the last couple of weeks – obviously some creep would pick Captain America's day off to attack New York.  
"Be safe," he murmurs when Steve gets up.  
"Are you sure you don't want to come with me?"  
James looks at him with a sad smile and shakes his head.  
"I'm not okay, Stevie. At least, not yet. You have to give me time to pick up the pieces, to...to fit them somehow, to define myself. I need to know who I am before I can do this."  
Silently he begs for understanding, for Steve to be able to forgive him long disappearance after the Triskelion battle. He doesn't have to beg. He forgot how sweet Steve's smile can be, even if it's tinged with a little bit of sadness.  
"Whatever you need, B...James. Till the end of the line, you know that."

James watches him go and feels the world shift somehow.

3

Every man, woman and child in the world knows Tony Stark's face. The man is everywhere – Internet news, TV, newspapers, live press conferences for the Avengers Initiative, not to mention that ugly building in the middle of the NYC. James is sometimes wondering if one day he'll open his fridge to find Stark there.  
His sense of humor is a little bit dark these days but hey, he'll take what he can get.  
Anyway, one of those days James is scrolling through the file SHIELD had on Howard Stark – just to follow up, after all he met the guy a few times during his time with Howling Commandos. He reads about the whole Leviathan business, creation of SHIELD with SSR agent Carter (he remembers Peggy very well, the slight pang of jealousy still there even after so many years), Howard's participation in the arms race, Stark Industries playing bigger and bigger part on the market. Marriage to Maria, one of the beauties that were always around and the birth of Tony, his son and heir.  
And his death.  
His murder.

 _“I'm so sorry,” says the bloodied man lying on the asphalt in the pool of red and rain. It's dark, only light comes from the mangled car on the side of the road. The Soldier sees that the passenger, a woman, is already dead. She was not the target but it doesn't matter._  
_“I'm so sorry that I didn't look for you,” says the man again. He's not begging nor screaming for help and the Soldier is confused by all the apologies. What for? “I convinced Steve not to go because I really thought you were already dead, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Bucky.”_  
 _The Soldier freezes for a second._  
 _Who the hell is Bucky? And who is this Steve? The name sounds familiar, it brings up something warm and foreign to the Soldier. He shakes his head. It's not important now because the Soldier has a mission to fulfill. He raises his gun._  
 _Howard closes his eyes and accepts what's to come._

James lets out a shaky breath.

“I've killed so many people, Peggy,” he says, looking at a woman laying in the hospital bed. “I've killed Howard, he was a mission… I don't know what he did but they wanted him gone. But how can I go on? How can I look in Tony's eyes knowing that I murdered his dad?”  
Peggy reaches for his hand and for a moment James marvels at the sight, her old and weak fingers holding his metal prosthesis with something that can be almost called reverence.  
“Do you regret it?” she asks in a quiet, slightly trembling voice. He knows she's not scared. Just old.  
Old people usually tend not to be scared.  
“I wish I had died in the Alps in 1944,” James answers truthfully. Peggy shakes her head.  
“You have another chance. Don't you bloody waste it, love. Don't you dare.”

It seems to him like having another chance is becoming something of a recurring motive.


	6. Hearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all comes back to him, eventually.

1

Eventually he decides that getting a job was a good thing. It's nothing much – but it's in the shipyard Bucky used to work in and it grounds him, it's good for his head. Well, the company has changed and the people, too, are not like the ones he remembers from the thirties. But then again, what hasn't changed since then? Sometimes James has to remind himself to act normal and not look too disappointed. Mostly he just keeps to himself and avoids other workers, they think he's a traumatized vet and James is perfectly content with that. They give him a wide berth and a few men thank him for his service but no one tries to befriend him.  
This time he's almost sure that eventually he'll see something more. A flashback. A part of his, and yet not his, past. James waits for it patiently – he has time, he has a lot of time. Both he and Steve are ageless these days. There is no deadline he needs to meet, no pressure to remember everything at once.  
It comes, eventually. It comes the day James hears a ship's horn.

 _He has his marching orders and the ship is already in the harbor. They all got one day pass, every man who'll be crossing an ocean to fight in a bitter, cruel war. So he has one day to say his goodbyes. One day he wants to cram the whole eternity in. Bucky goes home._  
_“I know, Steve, I know” he whispers over and over again between kisses, heated and desperate ones, the kind that says 'I don't want you to go' and 'Stay' and maybe even 'I love you more than anything in the whole world'. They don't need words to say those things because they can code it in their heartbeats, in their breaths. In touches and clothes left carelessly on the floor. “I want you to fuck me, I need you to fuck me, so I can carry it with me to Europe, so I can take a piece of you...”_  
 _Steve sobs into Bucky's lips and their breaths mingle, their bodies pressed so close they almost become one._  
 _“I'll follow you, you'll see, I will...”_  
 _They fuck like they haven't in a long time, desperate and sad, not really caring about their neighbors and even if Bucky's careful not to hurt Steve in the process, he himself welcomes the bruises already forming on his own hips and rough, almost painful slide of Steve's cock inside of him. Pleasure is bitter and somehow feels final._  
 _Bucky doesn't say anything to Steve. He simply buries his face in Steve's hair, still damp from sweat, and breathes. Exists. Remembers every inch of skin touching him as he's curled up protectively around the smaller body. He knows he will carry it with him, that it's probably the last time, that he may die or Steve will catch a pneumonia or something even worse while trying to enlist, and Bucky will return after the war to an empty flat._  
 _He doesn't say a thing. He counts the seconds till dawn._  
 _Steve doesn't walk him to the harbor, it would be too dangerous. They kiss once again and, without a word, Bucky leaves._  
 _The ship's horn is loud, so loud he almost loses himself in the sound. It's easier this way._

“You all right, pal?” An elderly man, one of the workers looks at James with concern.  
“Fine,” James answers and reaches to touch his own cheeks. They are wet. He's crying. He has no idea why, maybe because the feeling of loss is so profound and deep in his chest he's not sure it will ever get better. If it will ever go away.

The old man smiles sadly, says something about Vietnam James doesn't care to listen, and leaves him alone.

2

 _It's cold. The air is freezing, it cuts his skin like thousands of little knives or maybe razors, his clothing does nothing to protect him from the feeling. He has no idea what's happening, there is the sky and where is the ground – the only thing he knows for sure is that he's falling, there nothing he can cling to and he thinks he's screaming, his throat tightens so much it hurts. Everything hurts and he still sees Steve's terrified face even though all that there is before his eyes is greyish white._  
_And then he hits something, falls some more and sees only darkness._  
 _When his consciousness comes back, the sky is somewhere above him, he sees stars but they are so far away. He's stuck. Cold and stuck, to be precise, and he realizes he's in a crevasse. You have to be a very unlucky bastard to end up in one of those – Barnes knows there is no way out. He's getting sleepy and warm even though he's in the belly of an ice beast. He knows what it means. He only wishes he had the time to say goodbye to Steve._  
 _He hears shots from the surface and hopes so hard for it to be the Commandos, he knows they'll be looking for him if they can spare some time. No man left behind. He hopes._  
 _He falls asleep._  
 _Barnes doesn't feel anything for a very long time. He's lucky, it spares him the violent procedure of amputating the arm he shattered during the fall – he only sinks deeper into the coma his enhanced body decided to put him in as a way of preservation. Barnes floats on the merciful waves of river Lethe, swallowed by oblivion. From time to time he hears voices but he's not ready yet so he allows them to talk around him, to move him and care for him._  
 _When James Buchanan Barnes opens his eyes again, the voices stop. He hears beeps of machinery and sees stone ceiling over his head._  
 _But he drank too much from the river. The ancient Greeks were right, there is no escape from the kingdom of Hades – and James Buchanan Barnes never came back. Because how could he?_

James wakes with a gasp and it's cold, it's freezing and after a short period of confusion he sees the window he forgot to close. He hears explosions and cheers, and the sky is so colorful for a blink of an eye – and it takes him a while to remember that he's not in captivity anymore. He remembers who he is.  
He's James. He's Bucky, the man who loved Steve Rogers when he was a scrawny kid. He's Barnes, who hoped for help and in a cruel twist of fate got exactly what he wanted – and way more than he wished for. He's the seeker of answers, the man out of his time.  
When the streets of New York City celebrate the coming of a new year, James hides his face in his hands and for the first time in the whole eternity, he weeps bitterly.

3

 _There once was a girl who had red hair and was a ballerina. Or maybe she was anything but that, maybe she could be whatever she wanted to but for some reason she was everything they wanted and needed her to be._  
_And there once was a Soldier who was nothing more than a tool in desperate hands, a man without emotions and sad, sad eyes. He was passed from one owner to another, never caring about a thing._  
 _She was his mission. He was to teach her._  
 _So he did. They spend endless days and even longer nights in a dark training room with cement floor stained with blood. He pushed her and she bled, and then he pushed her some more because if he didn't, someone else would. And the little girl who had red hair wouldn't survive that, the Soldier knew._  
 _And sometimes, on the rare occasions when they were truly alone and there was no breathing audible from another room, no noise behind Venetian glass, she danced for him. Her small, lithe body became something more than just body, it became the dance itself and it sparked something inside of him. He watched her dance and even though there was no emotion evident on his face, she could see it in his eyes._  
 _It scared her. But she danced. “The Swan Lake” played in their heads._  
 _And after he taught her everything there was to know and then some more, the dancing stopped and he was cold and alone once again. So the Soldier went back to his lonely slumber and the girl danced for someone else – because it was no fairy tale._  
 _They rarely happen in the real world, after all._

“You're ready,” says Natasha as she sits next to him on the steps of Metropolitan Museum and hands him a cup of coffee. James is not surprised that she knows how he takes it. “You know everything, or at least everything you need. I can see it.”  
He nods.  
“I'll let him know,” she kisses his cheek and leaves, the little girl who had red hair now grown up and gone forever.


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The homecoming.

There's a knock on the door. When he opens, Steve smiles and for the first time in a long time it's a genuine smile that reaches his eyes, making them alight with something James is scared to name.   
“Are you ready?” he asks.  
Something hot and needy grips James' heart and makes him return the smile with equal joy.  
“I am.”  
Steve steps in, kicks the door close behind him and kisses him softly, and here it is, that familiar feeling he had forgotten and then remembered again. The one he had craved and missed and longed for.  
He's home.

_How much of one's personality is created by memories? A lot. But the never ending dispute of nature versus nurture has already shown that memories do not predestine a person to act in the certain way or become something and that a human being is something so much more than just a sum of one's knowledge and life experience._

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always loved and appreciated (as are prompts and requests!).
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on tumblr!](http://issayscorner.tumblr.com/)


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